Republican Party deux, Nilzero Style

Originally Published: April 9, 2004 @ 18:41 EST

I’m out here trying to entertain the guests, whilst Tom is still in the bathroom, teasing his hair into a coiffure that would impress the Sun King, Louis XIV of France, and singing “I’ve just met a girl named Maria.” Only, the lyrics require some modification to remain accurate, viz.:

“I’ve just met a girl named Maria—okay so that was three months agooooooo! but I still get so happy to see-hah. The butterflies in my stomach wont gooooooooooo! And while on the topic of my romatically-charged collywobbles, I must say, she’s the sun and the moon! Oh shit, the clock just struck half-past noon.”

And so on, and so forth, as I am left nervous and flying solo witht his group of fine guests whom I don’t know.

Nancy Reagan and Tipper Gore are standing together in the far left corner, sipping Mike’s Hard Lemonaide’s and pretending to b listening intently to one another’s off-handed commentary. An example of their conversation is:

NANCY: “I was reading your horoscope today. You should avoid Capricorns at all costs, and if you should meet a Leo, run like hell or you’ll be dead by noon the next day!”
TIP: “You know, these Napster-kids are even worse than all of these artists and their offensive lyrics. We’ve really got to getin in there and sue the pants off the lot of ‘em. A few more parents going bankrupt because four-year-old Susie downloaded the theme from Sesame Street and Al and I are moving to Barbados for the summer!”
NANCY: “You know, Jupiter is aligned with Venus, and it’s nearly halfway to the summer solstice. The time of reckoning shall soon be upon us.”

On and on and on, much tot he chagrin of Rosie O’donnell, who’d sidled up to solicit comments on her here-we-go-again Flock of Seagulls [HOLY-SHIT-I’m-a-Lesbian] haircut.

MEANWHILE, Justin Timberlake and Slash from Aerosmith are shooting pool in the kitchen with those distant-cousins George W. Bush and John No-W. Kerry. And my God, we don’t own a pool table! The must’ve had it delievered while I stepped out back to refill my drink; QED, the pool table-shaped hole, being quickly spackled-up by two shabbily dressed hispanic men, one o whom has a chainsaw hanging out of his back pocket and is continually glancing back in my direction. I simply feign ignorance, coupled with nonchalance and intently watch the unfolding Pop versus Politics billiards smash-up show-down.

JT clutches his stomach and breaks into a remix-worthy rendition of “Where is the grub?” a la the Black Eyed Peas famous tune. Surmising that he’s hungry, I go off in search of some suitable ten-thousand dollar potato chips, just as Dubya makes an insanely egregious scratch involving the shattering of several panes of window glass, the tearing of some table felt, and his playfully asking “That right thar counts as two, dunnit?”

Luckily, Tom emerges from the bathroom jus then, naked as the day, but his hair is a curled mountain rising two full-feet above his head. And not to be one who doesn’t take advantage of an already uber-gaudy situation, it appears as though he’s krazy-glued several live sparrows into the creeping—or is it just plain creepy—ivy of his stunningly vertical locks.

Then, striding across the kitchen like a Greek god, he grabs and oversized chrome spoon. And with it, he gathers an intimate quantitiy of dried muffin remnants that just hapen to be scattered all about the floor. However, since our much-admired Frank Zappa is long-dead, he dumps these in his pocket for later and beats the shit out of Timberlake with the spoon. JT’s just lying there in silent unconsciousness, so I guess there wont be a need for that ten-thousand dollar bag of crispy salty goodness anymore!

All of a sudden, Tom’s standing on JT’s throat, (somehow) wearing his Von Dutch trucker’s hat, and has taken over his place in the ensuing hilarity of the billiards game. Bush is shooting for the solids when he ought to be firing at stripes and Kerry’s just balled up on the floor with laughter, shouting “We gotta get out liek this more often ‘cuz. he wyere’s that guy Ivan? I wanna smoke some trees!”

Ivan appears out of nowhere—did he just step out of the fridge?!—looking every bit like Tommy Chong, but with a shave, and sounding more like Cheech Marin. Ivan drops an Olsen twin off of each shoulder, turns to me and says with a wink, “Three months and these two are eigteen. I’m holding onto them and then it’s open season!” That Ivan, what a riot!

He does an about-face to talk to Kerry about “those trees [he] wanted” and I’m left standin with the Olsen twins in a pile of dried muffin crumbs.

“So Ashley, what do you think of the Republican Party now?” says Mary-Kate.
“MK, please, you know I would have voted Bush if we’d been fuckin’ old enough. And dear, this is only a Republican-themed party, not The party itself.” retorts Ashley, eyeing those muffin remnants with a hungry look in her eyes. She must be on Atkins, I always thought she was the fat one.
“This party is way better than spending time witht hose old farts” comes a deep-but-kindly voice from behind me.

I turn around to see who it is, and there he is, the guest of honor… JESUS! I’m so excited that he’s shown up, I almost don’t notice the awkward mass beneath the LORDS robes. Still on with the new-aged passtimes, I see ::wink::.
“Hey Jeez—you don’t mind if I call you Jeez do you Jesus?” he shakes his head i n a subtle ‘no’ and I go on: “So waht’s the deal with the resurrection anyway? It’s almost Easter and inquiring minds want to know. Did it really go down like the Good Book says or did the Romans tack it on to boost the awe-striking power of their new state religion, as I’ve often read?”

Closing his eyes and sighing deeply, the Christ looks at me and says “Ah my child, you ar always so well-informed. If you could only see the Romance Novel Greek that those passages were writ in, their falsehood would be doubtless. However, we must finish this another time. I’ve got to bring these two over to the fold, so to speak.” And with that, hewalks into my room with the Olsens in tow. I can just make out the tintinnabulation of all that gear under his robes. It’s high time I get the hell out of here. If Brooke’s retellings of her experiences with Jesus are any indication of what’s to come, the screaming will be unbearable.

Just as I’m walking out the door, Chris bursts out of his room. He’s clearly been coding all night and has slept through most of the morning and afternoon. “Dude’s is it fucking Saturday?! Holy Shit Kevin, is Jesus making the time with the Olsen twins in your room?!”

What an odd party for the Saturday before Easter…